


Proxy

by Dreaming_Spire



Series: Proxy [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Cabinlock - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cabinlock, Crossover, Eventual Smut, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Post-Fall, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:10:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_Spire/pseuds/Dreaming_Spire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.”  It’s the only thing John has ever really asked him for, and it’s the only thing Sherlock can’t do.</p><p>Post-Fall fic - with crossover. Sherlock needs to find some way to keep John: the answer, while improbable, is the only possible solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day Three

_“Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.”_ It’s the only thing John has ever really asked him for, and it’s the only thing Sherlock can’t do.

“I promise, Sherlock. We can manage this.” Mycroft won’t stop talking. That’s what he does – talk. Talk and manage things, in his hatefully calm way. Of course Mycroft can see what this is doing to John, but Mycroft doesn’t feel it. Mycroft is the person who, when Sherlock suggested that leaving forever would be best, would be safest, agreed. Mycroft has been watching Sherlock self-destruct. Now, nearly five days later, Mycroft is suggesting alternatives, suggesting plans, suggesting careful, slow, impossibly long operations, when what Sherlock wants is what Moriarty promised – Sherlock wants to burn his own heart out.

He wants to tear out the ridiculous part of him that cares, that flawed, illogical mess that would get John killed. John could recover from Sherlock’s loss, would recover, would replace him, and Sherlock wants to destroy whatever part of himself that withers at the thought. He’s lived his whole life without John. There’s no reason he shouldn’t carry on as he did before. No reason except that he doesn’t want to, would rather have died in the fall instead of stagnating here, instead of dragging himself through the rest of his life with a John-shaped absence following him.

And now Sherlock has a plan. Mycroft wants him to wait three weeks before beginning to dismantle Moriarty’s web. Twenty-one miserable days spent doing nothing, because Mycroft thinks that would minimize the risks. Mycroft, ever concerned for his younger brother, ever in control, will set things in motion if Sherlock agrees to stand still. Mycroft even has a lovely cell waiting for Sherlock in Switzerland; he doesn’t call it a cell, won’t refer to the center as anything other than a resort for people who have a great deal of money, a greater desire for privacy and a still greater need to escape.

Escape is exactly what Sherlock needs, but not on Mycroft’s terms. He listens, numbly, to Mycroft’s droning, and his mind begins to orchestrate the steps to freedom. “Yes. Yes, I think you’re right,” he says, reaching for Mycroft’s computer, ignoring the momentary flicker of surprise that comes over his brother’s features. “A private flight, of course – commercial has too many people, too many risks. I’ll find some obscure outfit. I’m assuming you have a cover identity for me?”

“Of course,” Mycroft begins to lay out the details as Sherlock searches for a charter company. He makes sure the search terms won’t alert Mycroft. He interrupts Mycroft just enough to indicate that his attention is more focused on his disguise instead of analyzing a detectable pattern, claiming a preference in hair dyes, outlining a precise, subtle series of changes as though they’re just occurring to him. Meanwhile, he finds the very airline he needs.

“This one,” he says, pointing out the name. “They’ve got an unpredictable pattern of flight, and they’re desperate for business. They’re the most likely to take on flights of this nature.”

Mycroft looks over his shoulder and nods. “I’ll look into it. Two days from now?”

“I think so. I’d like to go to their headquarters and be sure – myself.” This is the moment when Mycroft is most likely to see through Sherlock. He forces himself to stifle the signs that this may be of any importance. Mycroft hovers for a moment, deciding. “We can manage that.”

Sherlock doesn’t laugh out loud. Yes, manage away, Mycroft. All Sherlock has to do now is to determine which of MJN Air’s pilots is responsible for the remarkable volume of diversions and emergency landings. As long as that pilot is flying Sherlock to Switzerland, Mycroft’s plan is doomed. Before the elder Holmes hears that there’s been a minor hiccup in his management, Sherlock will have slipped out of the wrong airport, over a few borders, and disappeared into Amsterdam’s _Rosse Buurt_ , erasing the pain of missing John with an older, more destructive friend in the form of a needle.

The next morning, Sherlock is on his way to Fitton.


	2. Day Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to examine MJN Air, and finds more than he expects.

Fitton might be the most unremarkable spot in England, which means at the moment, it suits Sherlock perfectly.  There are enough workers, mechanics, tradesmen and the like that one more man in a coverall is virtually unnoticeable. The same could be said of MJN Air’s portacabin; just one more temporary building with marginal upkeep, distinguished only by the company’s small sign. Sherlock positions himself near enough to the door to observe the comings and goings, confident he can pick out the likely candidate for the panicky pilot he’ll insist on flying with.

Of course, he could have gotten the name from the flight charts, if he’d dared to look more closely at the reports from MJN’s many disrupted flight plans. That, however, would have telegraphed his intentions to Mycroft, and Sherlock needs to succeed more desperately than he’d like to admit.

He **is** desperate. Even now, his focus wavers. He can practically feel the weight of the needle in his hand, the slight pain, the push of the rush before the freefall – oh, god, the fall, letting his mind shut down, stop the racing, stop the panic, stop the missing-John-ache. He could spend days lost in that blank, quiet space, maybe even the weeks he needed. Perhaps a miscalculation could stop it all for good, and there’d be no need to worry about the what ifs and the hows; he stops that train of thought abruptly, not allowing himself the temptation of hoping for a mishap, not allowing himself to be so pitifully weak.

He is weak, though. He’s not sure how that happened, exactly, but he’s disgusted by himself. The drug-binge isn’t as much an escape as a punishment for failing. He’d thought he’d managed to shut himself off, and now, here he is, an open wound. Even if he succeeds, roots out the last traces of Moriarty’s gang, any return is going to be temporary at best. John will still want things that Sherlock can’t give him, can’t make himself want to give. John will still want something normal for himself, and Sherlock can’t or won’t share that – it doesn’t matter which.  But now Sherlock cares about what John wants, and is less sure about his own ability to turn a blind eye towards John making a sacrifice of something unbearably pedestrian to Sherlock and seemingly essential to John. The kindest thing to do would be to adjust, to let John replace him in at least one aspect, but even the idea of that knocks Sherlock’s feet out from under him, makes a mean, hard feeling coalesce in his gut. _One thing at a time_ , he tells himself _. First, Amsterdam. If there’s a next, the work. Then, if you survive, John. If he hasn’t moved on already…_

The sound of whistling snaps him out of his thoughts.  There’s someone coming up the walk. Large male, approximately thirty, expression blankly cheerful – or is that cheerfully blank – not a pilot, support staff, probably steward, lives with older lady (mother, most likely scenario) and one small, white, mixed-breed dog. Obviously, the man is familiar with the airport personnel, as his face shows a moment of confusion at seeing a stranger present, quickly replaced with an eager grin – Sherlock wonders if the small dog has the same expression at times.

“Hullo! You must be new around here. I’m Arthur, Arthur Shappey, MJN Air.” Arthur pauses, mid-grin, then sticks out his hand. “Sorry, sorry! I forget sometimes, since I’m supposed to forget to shake hands with passengers. It seems rude, but it really isn’t, mum says. I don’t know why, but she says to pretend they’re cacti. Cacti is plural for cactuses , I mean, cactus, I mean, if you have more than one cactus, it’s cacti, even though more than one cat isn’t a cat-i.”

Arthur Shappey is obviously used to being stared at, but Sherlock manages to shift his features away from the expression of disbelieving contempt at the IQ-lowering babble that’s assaulted his ears and force a smile. Arthur takes this as encouragement, seizing Sherlock’s hand and giving it a vigorous shake. “Anyhow, you must be new. “

“Must I?” Sherlock manages. The workman’s coverall serving as his disguise is sufficiently weathered. He’d been counting on the anonymity of service personnel and not expecting Fitton Airfield to have a one-man greeting committee. Of course, he’d taken the precaution of slightly altering his features and adding a shaggy wig, but in that matter, Arthur Shappey would probably be fooled by the simple process of parting one’s hair on a different side.

“Oh, yes. I don’t recognize you, and you’re here, at our portacabin.  None of the maintenance people come here unless they’re new. Mum doesn’t pay them, you see. Oh, now she’ll be livid, since you probably would have cleaned it anyhow. Don’t tell her, would you?  She gets a bit shouty.”

“Ah. No. No, I won’t tell her,” Sherlock feigns looking around conspiratorially.  Out of all the scenarios he’d prepared for, none had figured in such a credulous and potentially helpful unwitting accomplice, but an extra advantage was hardly a setback. “You see, I’m not actually a maintenance man.”

“You’re not? Are you a mechanic? No, wrong coveralls. A zookeeper, and something’s escaped? Wow! That would be brilliant! Is that it? I hope so! What’s loose?”

Sherlock doesn’t grind his teeth.  Instead, he pretends to be almost as dim as his new friend. Arthur wants to be helpful, so Sherlock will need help. “No, you see, this is a disguise.”

“WOW,” Arthur repeats, eyes wide in awe. “A disguise? It must be a really clever escaped animal if you’ve got to trick it like that!”

“No!” Sherlock tamps down a surge of irritation, then puts on his best humble voice. “No, nothing so interesting. It's just that I’m a salesman, and I’m not terribly good at it – “

“No, you must not be, or else you’d know Mum doesn’t buy anything if she can help it.”

“Yes. I’m getting that idea. But you see, I thought if I could get a look around, really get an idea of what your employees are like, I could get an idea of how to sell to them.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant! Really, it is! Did you take some sort of course on how to suss people out from their stuff? I had one on understanding people nonverbally, which was brilliant, and now I understand pretty much everything about everyone, nonverbally, that is.”

“Did you?” Sherlock actually bites his tongue before replying. “Well. It sounds…brilliant?”

“Oh, it was! You see, right now, you’re showing three indicators of needing help. And I can help you!”

Sherlock doesn’t point out that he’s actually displaying six, and switches to gratitude. “Oh, thank you. It would be so very kind of you.”

“It’s all right.  I like helping people. Sometimes I help a bit much – well, that’s what other people say. I mean, how can you help someone too much?” Arthur shrugs and steps to the door. “But I have the key, so you can pop in and have a peep ‘round, as long as you don’t mind me watching.”

“Yes, please, that’s very good of you. Of course, I wouldn’t dream of stealing anything.”

“Stealing? Oh, yeah! I didn’t think of that. I’d definitely better stay.”

Sherlock couldn’t help asking, “…you didn’t? Then why would you want to stay otherwise?”

“So I can see how you do it! It’d be brilliant to read people’s stuff, as well as people.” Another confused look pops onto Arthur’s face. “Unless the people say one thing and the stuff says another. You’d get all confused.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, fighting the impulse to point out the numerous errors in everything Arthur says.  “You’d better stick with reading people.”

Arthur unlocks the door and steps inside, holding it open for Sherlock. “I think you’re right. Imagine if you read the wrong stuff, and get the people and their things all jumbled up, like the baggage claim at Bucharest. They’d get pretty put out. If you just stick to the person, I reckon you’re less likely to get the wrong person. What do you sell?”

Sherlock’s been observing the shabby office, trying to ignore Arthur’s conversation, such as it is. He manages to catch the question quickly enough, though. “Nametags.  That’s why it’s so important to get an idea of the person.  Do the pilots each have their own offices?”

“Nametags? Brilliant! That way, Skip won’t have to wear his hat in a fire.” Sherlock doesn’t even want to parse that idea. “No, we don’t have lockers. Skip and Douglas both have cubbies, and I just put my things in Mum’s desk. Well, I hand them to her, and she puts them in her desk. It’s company policy that nobody touches her desk but her.”

Sherlock’s already across the room, examining the cubbies. MJN Air is even more decrepit than he’d imagined, and the cubbies paint a grim picture. “So, two pilots use these. Where do the others store their things?”

“Others? I use Mum’s desk, and Mum uses her desk.”

“I mean the other pilots.” Sherlock manages not to growl.

“Oh, there are no other pilots. In an emergency, I guess Mum could ask Herc, and I’ve pretended to be a pilot – I didn’t pretend that I was a pilot myself; I pretended I was Skip, who actually is a pilot. But other than that, there’s only Skip and Douglas.”

Whoever this “Herc” person was, he or she flew MJN’s planes so infrequently that there was no trace in the cubbies of a third person. One pilot, clearly younger, obsessed with details.  A second, older, more experienced, more confident. His candidate is clear, but Sherlock’s brow furrows as he sees the likely culprit is the captain. Why should the senior, more capable pilot be the junior staff member? He filters a few reasons through his mind, or tries to, until he’s interrupted.

“Have you figured anything out yet?” Arthur peers over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“A few things,” Sherlock mutters, “but I’ve still got questions. “

“I could answer them! Probably. Maybe. More likely than not. Actually, more not than likely.”  Arthur sounds disappointed, but rebounds quickly. “You could ask them – Douglas and Skip – yourself. They’re checking G-ERTI over right now. Would you like to?”

“Yes, that might be best.”

As they walk, Sherlock tunes out most of what Arthur says in favor of working on the newest piece of the puzzle. The most reasonable explanation would be that the younger pilot is a relation of some sort, hired through misguided nepotism. If that were the case, though, surely Arthur would have mentioned something to that effect.  Perhaps it’s a measure of seniority at the company; this would work in Sherlock’s favor, as mismanagement on that scale would distract Mycroft no end.

Sherlock considers the merits of this theory as they approach the hangar.  The voices within the plane confirm some of his earlier deductions: the calm, deep tones from one man indicate that he’s sitting comfortably, as another voice grows more high-pitched and insistent as its owner moves from place to place. Yes, that fits precisely what he’s surmised about the power dynamics, despite the oddity in rank. Captain Crieff is exactly the type to pace nervously about his work, checking and double-checking, while Douglas Richardson “supervises.” He catches a hint of banal conversation before Arthur announces their presence. “Hullo, chaps!”

“Ah, Arthur.” From where Sherlock enters, he can see that Douglas Richardson is precisely what he expected. He can also see that Richardson is someone he’s met before, in passing, under circumstances that explain why Richardson is no longer a captain, or at least why he’s at a minor outfit like MJN.  He wonders, very briefly, whether the man spent any time at all in jail for smuggling, but he doubts it.

“Hello, Douglas. This is – well, I didn’t catch your name –“

Sherlock is about to answer when Martin Crieff interrupts, peevishly, stepping into the main cabin. “Arthur. What have we said about bringing strangers onto the plane?”

Sherlock freezes. In that moment, he takes in everything there is to Captain Martin Crieff, and abandons his plan without a second thought. His new, better, _perfect_ idea swarms into focus, so right, so brilliant. Leaving the MJN crew waiting, Sherlock simply turns and stalks off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be Cabin Pressure style, as the POV changes. It'll also come sooner than this one did, I hope.


	3. Enter Aunt Agatha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cabin Pressure time - the events before and after, as seen from the MJN perspective

Normally, Douglas enjoyed a bit of light reading. A spot of mid-morning tea and Wodehouse was, in his opinion, just the thing to relax and really get into the day. Then again, his usual reading routine did not include the dulcet tones of Martin Crieff’s  complaints.

“Martin, for the last time, I **am** helping inspect G-ERTI. I’m checking the passenger lights,” he indicated the overhead bulb, “and I assure you, so far, they are not inducing eyestrain. Furthermore, the seat is comfortably reclining, and the cushion seems to be adequately _cushy_. However, most flights do go on for more than a half-hour, and you were the one, I believe, who insisted we needed to check for flight-based scenarios.”

“Yes, **we** need to check. As in you and I, not I run about while you lounge about with a book. Perhaps next you’ll claim you’re supervising.”   Martin ticked off another item on one of his interminable lists, then looked up to glare at Douglas.

“Oh, no need for that, Martin. Surely you, as a captain who always maintains control of the aircraft, shouldn't have any problem with a measly little check-up?” Douglas went back to contemplating how difficult it might be to stage a small version of a Jeeves tale. Aunt Agatha was written with Carolyn in mind, and of course, Douglas would be a perfect Jeeves, but could Arthur really manage all of Bertie Wooster’s lines? If Martin weren’t the most inept actor Douglas had ever met, there’d be a temptation to stuff him into a wig and heels as Honoria Glossip – he had the strident whine down pat.

“This is serious, Douglas. Carolyn said it was urgent. “ And there was the tone in question, followed by a rather more worried one. “...what do you think she means?”

“I imagine she means she wants it done immediately _. Tout de suite_. _Immediatamente_.  Or in Carolyn-speak, right now. Other than that, she could mean anything.”

“There must be a reason she called an emergency meeting and told us - BOTH of us - to make sure G-ERTI was as presentable as possible.” 

Douglas put down his book with an exaggerated sigh. “Martin, when I said anything, I meant anything.  She could want to impress a potential client.  She could be selling G-ERTI.  Or she could simply be in the mood, as she often is, to get us to do more work than we're – excuse me, _I'm_ – getting paid for.”

“Or to get you to do ANY work.” It took a moment for Douglas’ words to sink in. “She can't be selling G-ERTI. She can't - can she?”

“Of course she _can,_ though I doubt she is. “

“Why would you even imagine that?” Martin was quickly approaching the level of panic Douglas associated with memorably rough landings. His rump positively ached with the memories.

“It's not a matter of imagining, it's a matter of being realistic, Martin.”     

“Has she said something? Do you know something you're not telling me?”

“Do I? Yes. So very many things. I just haven’t the time to say them all. But about this in particular? No.“ With the luxury to observe the captain’s distress while not in mortal jeopardy, Douglas noted that the blotchy red rising in Martin’s cheeks was not a complimentary shade for the MJN uniform.  The lines of annoyance creasing Martin’s face weren’t exactly fetching, either. 

“All right, so quit lolling about and help me. “ Yes, definitely Honoria Glossip. “I mean, I hate to tear you away from your _fascinating_ book."

In response, Douglas lifted the book again, waving Martin away. "Then don't. Go on, you're nearly halfway done as it is.”

“She said both of us, Douglas, and as you so helpfully pointed out, you're the one being paid.”

“Indeed I am, which is why I am here instead of tucked up comfortably in my own home. Carolyn insisted that we inspect the plane prior to our emergency meeting. I have inspected it to my satisfaction, but of course, Sir’s rigorous standards are more exacting than my own.” Douglas settled deeper into the seat.  “I humbly await your final verdict – and besides, there’s no use mucking about until after Arthur’s cleaned the cabin. Who knows what he’ll knock awry? If you can anticipate that, you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.”

Martin huffed at the inevitable truth of that statement and stomped off to the flight deck. With no small measure of satisfaction, Douglas returned to his book, only to be interrupted by Arthur’s cheerful shout.

“Hullo, chaps!” Arthur bounded into the cabin. He wasn’t alone, though. Some weedy-looking maintenance fellow lurked behind him, peering about in a suspicious manner.

“Ah, Arthur,” Douglas stared pointedly over Arthur’s shoulder.  

Remarkably, Arthur seemed to catch the broad hint. “Hello, Douglas. This is – well, I didn’t catch your name –”

The skulking fellow slunk a bit forward, staring at Douglas in the manner of an evil-minded customs-agent.  Before he could speak, Martin returned, putting the weight of his earlier annoyance fully into his comment to Arthur. “Arthur. What have we said about bringing strangers onto the plane?”

Arthur began to stutter an apology, but the stranger’s attention seemed riveted on Martin, suspicion replaced momentarily by complete and total shock. It lasted for a brief moment before the man turned and stormed off without a word.

“Well, that was – “ Douglas began.

“What?” snapped Martin, clearly offended by the abrupt departure.

“It simply _was_. Arthur, your friend didn’t seem very social.”

“He wasn’t a friend, exactly. He was a salesman.”

“A salesman? Good heavens. It’s probably for the best that Martin scared him off. If he can’t stand up to Sir’s wrath, I can’t imagine what Carolyn’s usual reaction would have done to the poor man.”

“I did try to tell him that Mum doesn’t buy anything, but he really wanted to try.”

“That’s all well and good, Arthur,” Martin broke in, “but you can’t drag salespeople onto the plane.”

“What if they’re paying customers? Some of the passengers might be salespeople. Isn’t the yacht company made of salespeople?”

“Yes, Arthur, but what Martin means is the sort of salesperson desperate enough to try his luck with Carolyn certainly can’t afford to fly on a charter jet.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that’s true.”

“Of course it is,” said Martin. “And anyhow, we need to finish up here before Carolyn arrives. I’m guessing she’s in a foul mood.”

“Oh, not at all,” Arthur said. “She’s in a fairly good mood. Well, good and bad, but more good. We might have a client, which is great.”

“Yes, we gathered as much from the insistence on sweeping all the proverbial dust under the rugs.” Douglas held up a hand to forestall Arthur’s incipient question, “It’s a metaphor, Arthur. We know she likes to have an extra run-through before someone new hires us. But what’s all this urgent meeting business?”

“That’s the not-so-great part. Apparently, the client’s a bit particular.”

“Aren’t they all? Expecting the plane in one piece, arriving on time, at the specified destination and nonsense like that?”  Douglas prepared to resume reading.

“Well, yes. But this one’s going to pay a LOT of money, if he books the flight. Which he almost definitely will, as long as he doesn’t manage to sneak in and get a look at G-ERTI before we’re ready.”

Douglas dropped his book and exchanged a horrified look with Martin, who gulped,“Ah, pardon?”

“Yes, the assistant booking the flight said the client would probably try to sneak in and get a look. Mum said there wouldn’t be a problem, then called you two to start, and sent me over so we could clean up. When she gets here, we’ll have an urgent meeting about absolutely positively not letting any strangers near G-ERTI, or me, or Martin, or anything.” Arthur was positively glowing with excitement. “It’s like being in a spy thriller or something!”

“Arthur,” Douglas tried to keep his voice calm. “What did your mother say?”

“To watch out for strangers.” Arthur repeated.

“And?” Douglas asked, with patience he didn’t feel.

“To not let them near G-ERTI. Or Martin. Or me.”

“Strangers?” Douglas placed careful emphasis on the word.

“Yep!” For all intents and purposes, Arthur seemed thrilled to have a correct answer. Douglas almost hated to enlighten him.

“Like the salesman? The salesman you met and escorted here, onto G-ERTI?” The color drained from Arthur’s face. “The salesman who took one look at our esteemed captain and stomped out without a fare-thee-well?”

“Oh,” said Arthur. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes, Arthur.” Douglas’s grim tone matched the general mood. Arthur and Martin had both turned the same shade of sickly green. “I do think Carolyn may be in a foul mood after all.”

“Do we have to tell her?” Martin trembled. “I didn’t even DO anything! Oh, god, this is all my fault, and I didn’t even DO anything.”

“Don’t be stupid, Martin. It’s also Arthur’s fault, and, to a degree, Carolyn’s, for attempting this veil of secrecy and relying on Arthur to preserve it. “ Ever the infallible sky-god, Douglas maintained an air of calmness. “However, I think it may be in our best interests to forget that our mysterious friend was ever here.  If someone claims he was, we may be better off categorically denying it. Are we agreed?”

Arthur started to protest, but swallowed and nodded instead.

Martin agreed, as well. “Yes, yes, but what if Carolyn finds out? She always does.”

“Let us hope this time is the exception, then, unless you’d like to volunteer that information.”

“What information?” Carolyn herself stood framed in the cabin doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone would like the Wodehouse references explained, let me know and I'll post links. It may have been silly to assume that anyone who enjoys CP might like the Jeeves stories, so forgive me.


	4. Waiting Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin, Douglas and Arthur anticipate the bad news - and Carolyn's wrath.

"What information would that be?" repeated Carolyn. "Come on, has one particularly enterprising cat gotten all of your tongues in one go?"

"Interesting that you should mention cats, Carolyn, as it seems this one is out of the bag." Douglas held up a hand to silence the protests about to pour forth from Martin and Arthur. "No, there's no use pretending. Arthur has let slip that the cleaning was for more than a whim. We were hoping that you wouldn't discover that, or that you are destined for disappointment."

Carolyn fixed him with a glare that explained why such an expression was usually referred to as "steely" - a lesser man would be trembling due to the clear indication that she was deciding which part of him to mince first. "Am I?"

"You are. It seems that the tea stain created during Arthur's last enthusiastic service will not come out, despite all efforts. We'll have to resort to using a dimmer wattage of bulb in that seat while hoping the client is nearsighted or color-blind." Behind him, the other two tensed, waiting to see the results.

"You must think I'm an idiot. You've tried neither vinegar nor bleach - although the client might have smelled those. Luckily, I have lived with Arthur much longer than you - "

"My whole life, actually," Arthur supplied helpfully.

"Please don't remind me. But that means I do know how to not only remove the stains, but to cover up the telltale scents. I also know that you meant the real problem was the milky pong - really, Arthur, why must you always upset the milk teas?"

"Sorry, Mum."

"Well, that's settled," Douglas said. "I must say, you took that better than I'd dared hope."

"That is because I stand to make a great deal of money if this booking goes through, and this booking **will** go through. Today, we clean G-ERTI tip to tail. By that I mean completely, and by "we" I mean you three. I shall be keeping an eye out for unwanted visitors, and an ear out for the phone."

"You'd think, with a matter this important, you'd farm the job out to professionals," Douglas countered.

"I am. You three are professionals, are you not? Don't answer that. We all know you're not. However, we are not at a profit margin where I can afford the risk in case - in the infinitesimally small case that this falls through."

"Is it really that important?" Martin asked. "Are we - is MJN that close to broke?"

"Let me answer those questions with another. Do you like your job, Martin? Because today you three clean like your jobs depend upon it, as in fact, they do."

Martin's face fell, as did Arthur's. Douglas managed to keep steady. "All right, Carolyn. Chin up. We won't let you down. Go on, and we'll handle it from here."

"You mean you'll handle it. Douglas, I can't stress this enough. No cutting corners, no room for error. I will say this once and once only: Please."

He could do nothing but nod. Carolyn returned the nod, turning and striding out, chin up, back straight.

"Oh, god. Oh, god, Oh, god." Martin began. Arthur looked about to cry.

"Now listen, you two. We've no time to waste. You begin cleaning like there is no tomorrow, which very may well be the case."

"And what will you do?" demanded Martin.

" _I_ am going to sit in the cockpit with my mobile phone, and ring everyone and anyone I know who might possibly consider chartering a flight. We may not get the client Carolyn wants, but perhaps I can scrounge up one to meet her immediate needs."

With that, he left the captain and the steward to their task.

\----------------------------------

After six hours, Douglas re-emerged into the cabin.  One look at his face told Martin what the results had been, but Arthur, ever the optimist, chirped, "Have you fixed it yet, Douglas?"

"In a word, no."

"Nothing," asked Martin. "Really?"

"Yes," Douglas's response came out more harshly than he meant, but dire times meant dire tones. "Nothing.  A great many maybe laters, and absolutely no yeses now."

"Well, later is good, isn't it?" Arthur said.

"No, Arthur. Later in this case may be far too late. You heard your mother."

"Well, maybe it won't be so bad. I mean, look how clean the cabin is!"

"Yes, Arthur. You two have done a splendid job. And since G-ERTI stands to sit unused for a very long time, I'm sure the mice which find their way on board will find the ambiance delightful."

Another glum silence fell. Douglas held his book, but couldn't muster the enthusiasm to read. Martin moped and Arthur re-cleaned several already-immaculate areas.

All too soon, Carolyn returned. "No sign of intruders?" Douglas asked.

"No, not a one. Perhaps he decided not to come, after all." Her face belied her hopeful tone.

"Mum, you could try doing the breathing - " Arthur began.

"Not another word, Arthur!" Even for Carolyn, that was snappish.

"What does he mean, Carolyn?" Grateful for any distraction, Douglas seized on it.

"Nothing," she replied, too smoothly, checking her mobile and pointedly not looking up.

"Mum's GP told her to practice calming breaths," Arthur supplied. "He said she could try yoga, but -"

"But I am precisely as calm as I need to be, and if anyone needs to twist themselves into a pretzel, it is a know-it-all young quack who thinks all of life's problems can be sorted by exhaling through one's nose, thank you, Arthur."

Douglas noticed with some amusement that Carolyn was actually exhaling with some force, nostrils flaring with emphasis. "Oh, I don't know, Carolyn. There may be something to it. Besides the calming aspect, there may be some benefits, flexibility-wise. I'm sure Herc would agree."

"Douglas!" Carolyn glared.

"Douglas!" Martin's face had gone nearly the same shade as his hair.

"Douglas!" Arthur joined in, apparently just indignant because it seemed like the general consensus, as he promptly added," Why, does Herc do yoga? Can he do a pretzel? Brilliant!"

"Much as I am enjoying this mortifying conversation, gentlemen - Douglas, I'll thank you not to speculate, and Martin, I am equally piqued at you for that tone - " despite a squeak of protest from Martin, Carolyn continued, "The matter at hand still concerns our client. The agent was very adamant that there'd be an attempt."

The three men exchanged guilty looks. "Maybe," Martin ventured, "They simply changed their minds?"

"You had better hope not," Carolyn said. "And yes or no, I'd been practically promised a response by day's end."

"Well, we all know the worth of promises, Carolyn. It was probably all a sham job, not likely to come off anyhow. I'm sure we can fend off the wolves at the door for a week or two, and drum up some sort of hen-and-stag special booking to pay the worst of the bills." One of Douglas's special skills was the ability to sound sure when he was anything but, and working for MJN gave him ample practice.

"Let us hope so - " Carolyn began, before her mobile trilled. Holding up her finger for silence, she assumed her most indulgent customer-service voice. "Ah, good evening, Miss Askey.  How lovely to hear from you."

Douglas motioned Arthur and Martin to the galley.  "Now, we're going to stay calm."

"How can I stay calm? I'm not calm now!" Arthur wrung his hands. Under different circumstances, Douglas may have been amused, having never seen the gesture actually performed in real life. Now, though, was not the time.

Martin had gone from red to white, the color leached completely from his skin. "Douglas, she's going to - going to - I don't even know what she'll do. It'll probably be new and especially horrible, invented just for this occasion."

"Or maybe she'll just cry." Arthur sounded as though that were his next move, as well. The impact of a situation bad enough for that obviously entered Martin's mind, judging from the way his face fell as Arthur's words sank in.

"Stop that at once. We don't even know if the client will mention our little visit. For that matter, we don't even know that they won't book the flight. Carolyn might make them an offer they cannot refuse." It wasn't impossible that Carolyn Knapp-Shappey could employ a _Godfather_ -like strong-arming.

"Yes, but - " Hope was a foreign concept to Martin at this point.

"But, Martin!" Arthur bounced, excitedly. "Look! Look at Mum. She's smiling!"

They all turned. Carolyn was indeed beaming at the phone, a cat regarding a plump canary all snuggled down asleep in a particularly vulnerable nest.

"You see? Where there's life, there's hope." Douglas clapped Martin on the back.

The genial mood lasted another few moments, long enough for the three to walk back up the length of the cabin.

"Wonderful," Carolyn said, before her expression changed. "I'm sorry?" As she waited for a response, she glanced from Douglas to Martin, to Arthur and back to Martin. After an unusually long pause, she spoke again. "I see. I would - I would have to - it IS a very unusual request. No, not a problem exactly. Yes, I understand. I will broach the idea." Another pause. "I will certainly encourage him to consider it, yes. I shall let you know first thing in the morning. And thank you for considering MJN Air for your needs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While "Anthea" is also another name for Hera, it's worth noting that Anthea Askey was an English actress popular in the 1950s (thank you, Wikipedia).


	5. Ground Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery client has agreed to book MJN - with certain stipulations. Is it an offer they can refuse?

Carolyn hung up the phone, and looked at her crew. "So."

 "A needle pulling thread?" Douglas finished. In his experience, refusing to volunteer additional information was a vital part of avoiding incriminating oneself – an item that too few people understood. Luckily, Martin and Arthur had confusion and hope contending with guilt for equal room on their faces.  They couldn’t muddy the waters, and Douglas wouldn’t. If Carolyn wanted admissions, she'd have to fish harder.

 "Did they book us, Mum?" Hope had won the day in Arthur's case.

"There's a problem, what's the problem?" blurted Martin. His confusion and guilt joined forces, then traveled swiftly to paranoia.

The oddly uncomfortable bit was Carolyn's expression. Neither enraged nor gleeful, it was, for one of the few times Douglas could remember, hesitant. "There are no problems. Merely some - let us say complications."

"And could we say exactly what those complications are?" Douglas prompted.

That snapped her out of her mood. "We could, if I knew exactly what happened when the client managed, despite my very clear instructions, to come onto this aircraft and meet my disobedient pilots."

"And Arthur. He also met Arthur - for whom you must admit some responsibility, Carolyn."

 "Arthur is an ongoing work, one whom I have ample experience explaining. I was prepared to tell them he was a confused bystander."

"Oh, Mum!" Arthur interrupted. "I'm almost never just standing!"

"No, Arthur. I gathered that you were the "helpful" staff to whom they referred." Arthur beamed, but Carolyn continued, "I assured them that you never helped in any regard to moving parts on the airplane, even when it was not in motion, and as soon as I explained that you were very adept at going away, you were rather a plus."

"So is the booking a go or not?" Douglas asked.

"That - remains to be seen." Carolyn was nervous, a terrible sign. It made Douglas just a little concerned, although it seemed to make Martin become a human jelly. As Carolyn cleared her throat and looked in his direction, he became more like a jelly about to be microwaved. "Martin. May I speak to you for a moment?"

Jellies weren't noted for their powers of speech, but Martin managed a few barely-coherent squawks. "No! Yes! I - please! I didn't mean -"

"Sit down, Martin. You two; out of here. We need a moment." Carolyn's brusqueness in ordering them out wasn't a problem, but the concern she was showing when addressing Martin was the most worrying part by far. Even Arthur was beginning to notice something amiss.

Douglas began moving Arthur towards the cabin. "Of course," he said, a reassuring hand on Arthur's back. He would have given Martin a pat, but that would only have confirmed there was reason to panic. "However, I'll note preemptively that if Martin doesn't have to cater to the whims of this particularly whim-driven client, I shall refuse to do so, as well."

 Carolyn seemed to have barely heard. "Yes, yes, off with you."

Arthur made as though to protest, but Douglas steered him off. "Now, listen, Arthur," he began.

 "But Douglas, Skip's in trouble! It's really bad, too! Mum's gone all quiet, and -"

"No, Arthur, I said "Listen." Douglas flipped a switch, and a secondary intercom crackled into life. "If you're very quiet, we can pick up what's going on."

As Douglas expected, Martin was in full on panic mode. "You can't fire me. I mean, you can, but it's not fair, Carolyn, please. I didn't even do anything, I just -"

"Just what, Martin?"

"I just told Arthur "No visitors," and the man ran off! I'm a good pilot, Carolyn, you can't think - if you hire someone else, it could just be for this flight. You could tell them you fired me, but not really fire me, or just fire me a little. Oh, god, you're firing me."

Douglas had clamped a hand over Arthur's mouth at the first mention of firing. Now, he held him back from charging to Martin's defense.  Luckily, Carolyn continued, "What? No. Martin, for all of your "you-ness," you are a very good pilot for the price. Free pilots are few and far between, as we both know." Arthur physically relaxed at that, and Douglas listened more intently. Where was this going? "You must have done something, however. The client will positively not fly without you."

"He what?" Martin stuttered.

 "Will not consent to book our flight without our esteemed Captain Crieff. You are non-negotiable.” Carolyn held the slightest of pauses. “However, there are conditions. Or rather, a bonus."

Douglas could picture the complete shock on Martin's face. Martin’s whine of "I don't understand,” echoed Douglas’ thoughts exactly.

Carolyn seemed in synch with the sentiment. "Neither do I, frankly.  I'd have thought people would prefer to pay extra to spend less time in your company. The client, however, is eccentric in the extreme."

“I don’t understand.” Martin repeated in a voice indicating he’d had calmed down somewhat, settling into a state best described as utterly confused.

“Eccentric, meaning –“

“I know what it means, Carolyn. “ From the captain’s tone, Douglas could tell Martin was back on familiar ground – annoyance.  Privately Douglas congratulated Carolyn on steering the boy back onto an even keel.  “But what are the conditions, and why me?”

Douglas didn’t even realize he was holding his breath while Carolyn paused just a moment too long.  Despite his mouth hanging slightly open, Arthur was too, getting a bit blue-ish in the process.  As Douglas jostled a “Woosh” out of him, Carolyn’s voice began again, in a dangerously gentle tone.

“Listen to me, Martin. I am not asking you to do this on my account. The flight alone, which is guaranteed at this point, is enough to solve MJN’s immediate problems. But the client was hoping that you could be persuaded to do some extra work, and if you agreed to that, it would benefit both of us. You would receive a substantial payment -call it a bonus, if you will - and I would get a little extra for losing my pilot for a short time.”

The entire affair sounded too suspicious for Douglas’s liking. He strode back into the cabin, Arthur following close behind. “How much extra are we talking, Carolyn?”

“Ah, Douglas. The word “bonus” invokes you, does it? I’m not surprised.” Carolyn narrowed her eyes.

“It does indeed, especially when my name isn’t attached.” He crossed his arms and waited for an answer.

“That is because the client asked for Martin specifically. They were generous enough to suggest that Captain Crieff’s crew might be in line for a little something thanks to the burden of losing a member…”

“Losing?” Douglas, Martin and Arthur chorused.

“IF I may finish?” Carolyn dropped any pretense at patience.  “It is a _temporary_ loss, and it is incumbent upon Martin’s agreement. The person paying us is the manager of an especially temperamental musician. Originally, we were being considered as transport to get this talented but testy individual to Switzerland.”

“Ah,” drawled Douglas. “This _artiste_ suffers from nerves, one supposes?”

“That was the general suggestion, yes, which meant we were merely to suffer him, as we do all of our passengers,” Carolyn said. “We were merely to do our usual: collect passenger or cargo, fly plane to specified destination within a reasonable time – now that I think of it, that’s rather UN-usual for this airdot.”

“Now is not the time for critiques, Carolyn,” Douglas recognized an attempted diversion when he heard one. “Usual has nothing to do with this instance.  If it were usual, the trespassing and spying that you refer to as an inspection would have sealed the deal in an entirely different way. What happened?”

“But after the inspection, the manager called back. It seems that the musician, while talented and temperamental, is also extremely particular. For whatever reason, he has taken to Martin.” Carolyn gestured to the still-flustered pilot in question.

Douglas attempted to wrap his head around the thought. “MARTIN? So, by particular, you mean insane.”

“Po-tay-to, Pa-tah-to, Douglas.” She ignored Martin’s indignant glare. “The bonus is now for delivering the musician to the health spa –“

“Getting the booby to the hatch,” Douglas corrected.

“Yes, and for Martin to accompany him. There is a large-ish financial incentive for Martin to deliver this person and to induce him to stay. The manager feels that Martin will have a calming and pleasing effect on his client. Now, we all know that Martin has a calming and pleasing effect on exactly no-one, but that is not our concern. All Martin must do is enjoy two and a half weeks in what I am assured is a rather lovely spa hotel, while we suffer his absence.” Carolyn smiled at her crew, or at least bared her teeth in their direction.

“I rather think you’ve transposed the words “suffer” and “enjoy,” Carolyn.” Douglas remained unmoved by whatever expression the teeth-baring indicated.

“I agree. However, as I said, on the surface, the pros mightily outweigh the cons. The client is happy to pay G-ERTI’s hangar fees, or let us make whatever smallish jaunts we may with one pilot, or to put the auxiliary crew up in a nice-ish place with a small per-diem.”   

“I’d like a closer definition of “nice-ish” and “small,” thank you.” Douglas had known Carolyn far too long to let those words slide.

“And “perdium.”  Is it like a stadium?”  Arthur joined in on the round of questions.

“Per-diem, Arthur, from the Latin for for day,” Douglas supplied.  “We’d be getting an allowance.”

“Oh, that’s all right, then. I already get an allowance,” Arthur beamed. “So you don’t need to worry about that, Mum.”

“No, Arthur. The client will be supplementing your regular allotment in order to cover some necessary expenses while you’re trapped in – where is it exactly?” Douglas turned back to Carolyn.

“Geneva, or rather, the outskirts of Geneva.  Arthur, you and Douglas would be afforded a comfortable, if not extravagant, arrangement while you waited for the client to settle in, or more likely, to get his fill of Martin’s company.  At that time, you may come home with the satisfaction of a job well done and a bonus well-earned.”

“Well. We’ll hardly have time to unpack.”  Douglas grinned.

“I don’t see why you think it’s so impossible that someone might think I was capable of being good company,” complained Martin.

“It’s only that we’ve met you, Martin. You are - how shall we say it? - an acquired taste,” Carolyn said.

“But you grow on one, Sir,” Douglas added. “Much like a fungus.”

At that, Martin practically snarled. “Very funny, Douglas. Carolyn, tell the client I’ll do it.”

Carolyn reached for her phone. “If you’re sure, Martin. As I said, you’re under no obligation to do anything more but fly the plane. If you have any reservations about this admittedly peculiar request –”

“I can handle myself, Carolyn, and I’m very sure I can handle some nervous musician.” Martin glared at Douglas. “I think I’ll enjoy a few days at a spa. Five-star, I assume?”

“A bit too posh for stars, actually. It is a level of luxury usually termed “sinful.” Carolyn smirked as she began to dial.

“If the client thinks they’d prefer someone a bit more experienced – ” Douglas began.

“Mine is not to wonder why, Douglas. The client requested Martin, and Martin he shall have. You will have a richly undeserved vacation, and we’ll all have a bit more pocket-money at the far end of this. Now away with you.” Carolyn waved them off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter won't be as far away, and the racy stuff is coming (pun not intended). Comments welcome.


End file.
